Chapter Thirty-two

Nate wakes to gunfire.

He knows the sound intimately; he knows the ear-shattering explosion when it comes from his own hand and the muffled popping sounds it makes from miles away. He's even been jolted awake by it before.

And it doesn't particularly scare him - at least, not until he notices that he's alone. The cabin is cold and empty, the door swinging in the winter wind.

But still, it takes too long to process the two separate thoughts of Reid is missing and gunshots. His mind refuses to make the connection, but his body has already figured it out. He's climbing out of bed, fear weighing in his bones until they're made of granite, his muscles pleading with him to stop, to stay in the safe blankets that still smell faintly of Reid's skin.

He stumbles to the door and pulls on his shoes, and that's when it finally all clicks into place. The floor next to his battered boots is empty; that's the place where Reid's should be.

And then Nate is moving so fast it's like he's flying, not bothering with his coat, not feeling the snow crunching under his feet or the frozen air whipping against his skin.

Because he's following the messy tracks to the tree line, stopping short when he sees the pool of red - so much blood, he swears he can smell the coppery tang of it in the air - against all that white snow, Reid's face gone nearly pale enough to match.

He's still. So perfectly, horrifically still.

Nate sees Elsa too, vaguely, but he shoves it into the same box he has kept Devon's memory in since that night back in Lansing. Elsa doesn't matter now, not really. Not when Reid's blood is fucking everywhere and Nate's knees are soaked and freezing from the snow because apparently he fell down beside Reid at some point.

Nate's hands hover over him, trembling, useless, and it's like he has never seen blood before because he's mesmerized. He doesn't want to see it, he never wanted to see this, but he can't look away from the glistening red slicking Reid's side and he knows that this image will be burned like a brand on his brain. That it's the last thing he will see before he goes to sleep, if he ever finds enough peace to sleep again.

It's all so sluggish and quiet, like the cold has frozen him, too, and maybe time itself. But finally, finally, a clear thought surfaces from the din inside his head.

There's something I need to do. Help. I should get help.

Nate doesn't have anything on him except cash, Reid's badge, and his own ineffective hands. But he notices that Reid's jeans are bulging at the hip and it's not his gun - that's lying a few inches from his right hand - so it must be the phone. He chokes back a sob as he reaches into Reid's pocket, his mouth forming silent, nonsensical apologies to Reid for the invasion - he's still not moving, his skin too cool and unresponsive - and scrolls through the short contact list with shaking fingers until he finds Ben's name.

What he wouldn't give to be able to call, to hear a reassuringly familiar voice on the other end of the line. Instead, his fingers fly over the tiny keyboard, forming words that he can't even fully comprehend.

"It's Reid. He's hurt. It's bad."

The little swoop noise of the text as it sends seems to echo in the frozen silence, the phone nearly cracking in Nate's iron grasp.

Answer me answer me answer me answer-

1,600 miles away, Ben stands. His desk chair rolls away behind him and he's already dialing the emergency number on his desk phone with one hand while texting with the other. "Tell me exactly where you are."

*******

Nate contacted Ben because he assumed there was a special emergency code to use when a marshal was down. He was right, but it still takes what feels like for-fucking-ever before he hears the sirens in the distance, echoing across the mountain ridges. An entire lifetime lived in the space between each of Reid's heartbeats, Nate's ear pressed to his chest as he silently recites a litany of furious prayers that there will be another thud, that the ever-slowing and stuttering beat will even out, will hold strong.

But Reid's blood keeps oozing between Nate's fingers where he has his hands pushing down on his open side, the hot blood a stark contrast to the cold around them.

Nate has a thought, wild and half-mad, that the cold is somehow a good thing, preserving Reid's tissue until the paramedics can get here. Keeping him in some sort of stasis, like Ted Williams.

He thinks he's about to start laughing, but tears are freezing on his cheeks instead.

And then finally there are men in blue polyester with their tubes and stretchers and needles, and they're carting Reid and Elsa away together as if they are equals, as if Nate's entire world won't come crashing down if Reid doesn't make it, as if it matters to the universe if Elsa drops dead right now. As if she wasn't asking for it.

One of the EMTs asks Nate if he wants to ride with them to the hospital and he nods automatically, only hearing it on a subconscious level. And he barely notices the wild ride in the passenger's seat through the snow-covered Vermont wilderness, not seeing the scenery flash by the windshield because he's too busy focusing on the horrific idea that Reid could already be dead just a few feet away, the ambulance nothing more than a glorified hearse.

They half-slide into the icy ambulance bay, Nate not even halfway down from the front seat before a swarm of people have opened the back doors and slid the stretchers out. They're talking and poking at Reid as they rush him away, Nate unable to see anything through the crush of dark scrubs but Reid's left hand dangling a bit off the stretcher. Nate thinks that he should have bought Reid a ring for that hand, given him some tangible token of their life together to take away with him.

The doctor's half-sentences of medical jargon are beyond Nathaniel's understanding, but even he can read the creases in the nurses' foreheads, the grim set of their mouths.

It's bad.

Another team swirls around Elsa, which means she must not be dead yet.

Just give me a minute alone with her and I can fix that.

Nate can barely contain the rage burning through him, the all-consuming desire to march up to Elsa and choke her until her lips turn blue and her tongue falls out, until she doesn't have the privilege of breathing the same air as Reid or getting the same life-saving attention.

To think that she used to be his favorite. That after he'd heard the Passover story in Sunday School when he was five and he'd gone around finger-painting all of his sibling's doorways red to protect them from avenging angels, he'd taken the time to paint Elsa's window frame as well, just to make sure she was extra safe. He had wanted to pay her back somehow for taking care of him in a way none of the others did.

Because she was never the one teaching him to shoot or stab or hate. Instead, she taught him to heat Spaghetti O's in the microwave when he got hungry and how to wash his whites without turning them pink, and she checked his closet for monsters every night for a month after he watched Friday the 13th.

She was the closest thing to a maternal figure he had, and only half an hour ago he had stood over her bleeding, broken body without mourning, without trying to help her. He had seen her red hair fanning around her in the snow, the hands that had cared for him curled helplessly at her chest, but he didn't have room for any emotion except the blind panic he'd felt at the spreading pool of red beneath Reid.

So there will be no breakdown in the shower over Elsa, because he's figured out a few things since Devon died. He may not have ever wanted a war with his family, but that doesn't change the fact that he's in one. And even though he will always love them in that way that seems biologically imposed on siblings, he knows now that they've made their choices.

And Nate has made his - the man that was just wheeled away from him. Reid is his choice, the only one he has ever been completely sure of.

Nate is still just standing in the now almost-empty ambulance bay, alone and covered in blood that he wishes was his own, and he's not sure how much time has passed or where they've taken Reid.

Some nurse takes pity on him finally, herding him into the hospital and directing him to a waiting room that's mostly empty. With a small smile that doesn't quite make it to her eyes, she promises that someone will come tell him as soon as "his friend" is out of surgery.

Nate wants to scream, to tell her that Reid's not just a friend, that he's everything, and that she's wasting time trying to reassure Nate when she needs to be in there, helping somehow, fixing Reid, but he can't. He swallows it all down, tells himself she's just doing her job.

So he nods, curtly, folding his hands together and squeezing. They're sticky, the blood on them half-dried. He doesn't bother to go wash it off.

Hours pass. He seeks out the nurses' station twice, typing out pleas for information, and they keep telling him the same thing. Reid was seriously wounded. He's in surgery. They will get him when they know more.

Nate feels as if he's going to throw up and have a heart attack at the same time, as if he's going to vibrate right out of his skin and be left raw and slowly bleeding out on the hospital floor, the one that smells like piss and vomit and bleach and death.

He watches the seconds tick by on the wall clock, hanging slightly crooked and clearly working under some other perception of time. One where every second stretches into infinity, where Nate lives through every possible scenario, where whole lifetimes start and stop and begin again.

It's so slow.

Maybe that's a good thing. It would be worse if they were done quickly, it would mean there wasn't much they could do, it would mean Reid is-

He can't think the word.

He spirals like this for so long, fidgeting and sighing and barely clinging to his last shred of sanity, sure that he's going to die here, that he'll grow wrinkled and gray watching that cursed clock tick his life away...and then a doctor finally walks over to him, weariness showing in the dark circles under his eyes.

Nate springs to his feet; he stops breathing.

"Are you here for Reid Logan?" The doctor asks.

I am here for Reid.

I am here because of Reid.

Worse - he is here because of me.

Nate just nods.

The doctor's gaze rests on Nate's neck for a second, blinking as he registers the jagged white scar. And then his shoulders slump a bit as he clenches his surgical cap in his hands.

"Reid's resting now, and he's not quite out of the woods just yet - his intestine was nicked, so infection is a serious concern - but he's stable, and we did as much as we could. I'm hopeful that with some luck, he should make more or less a full recovery."

With those last two words, all the nervous tension that has been carrying Nathaniel to this point dissolves, and he falls into the chair behind him and collapses over his knees with a sob, twisting the hem of his jeans into his fists.

The doctor reaches over, pats his back stiffly. "You can see him once he's out of recovery."

And Nate nods with his face still buried in his knees, wiping the tears and snot on the worn denim. The doctor is gone by the time he finally sits up.

Nate tries to relax, to tell himself that the waiting will be easier now that he knows that Reid is alive, that he will see him again soon.

But another hour passes; no one comes.

And he's beginning to go half out of his head again, convinced that the doctor was lying to keep him there until another marshal could arrive, get him locked into handcuffs before admitting that Reid is dead. That Nate would be taken to a "secure location," kept under lock and key until they could parade him in front of a jury.

Make the trained monkey dance and sing of all of his misdeeds for the pious masses.

He thinks about leaving for a second, of running until he collapses, of choosing to believe that Reid is fine instead of facing whatever the truth may be.

But then yet another harried nurse calls Nate forward, scribbling a room number - 723 - on a scrap of paper that she thrusts at him across the massive desk. He tries to follow the signs to the wing they've put Reid in, but it's as if this hospital was designed like Dante's Hell. It's a spiraling labyrinth that just sucks him deeper and deeper, one that no mortal can escape.

It takes him two wrong turns and a near-assault of a passing med tech that Nate refuses to turn loose until he gets very specific directions but he eventually finds the right set of elevators, his knees bouncing impatiently as he waits for one to reach his floor.

And then it happens. Rounding the corner into the elevator bay comes a face that's far too familiar. It's somewhat thinner and grayer than Nate recalls, but there's still that prominent Angelev jawline and one of those ridiculously deep v-necked shirts Grant has always preferred.

For the second time that day, Nate is reunited with a piece of his family.

And Nathaniel is so fragile, so numb with shock, that he raises one hand to wave before he even realizes what he's doing.

His brother stops, suddenly, his Italian loafers so slick on the bottom that he slides a few inches across the linoleum. Grant's eyes go wide with disbelief when they lock on Nate, his every movement shifting from artfully languid to spastic and frantic. He rushes to Nate's side, his head darting around like a bird's until he finds the sign for a bathroom down the hall. He practically drags Nate there, his grip tight enough to add to Nate's bruises.

Once the door is carefully closed and locked behind them, Grant whirls, his hands pulling at the roots of his hair desperately.

"Nathan, what in the name of ever-loving fuck are you doing here?"

Nate swallows, his every muscle coiled so tightly that they hurt. "Reid's here."

Grant doesn't even pretend to care what that means, rushing forward to wrap his hands around Nate's shoulders, shaking him so hard that it clacks Nate's teeth together.

"Elsa is here. And dying. This hospital is going to be crawling with family any minute." He takes a deep breath and pulls back, his brow furrowing in worry. "You've got to get out of here. NOW."

Nate is too far gone to recognize the act of mercy. Instead, he just shakes his head violently and pulls away. He moves back to the door, to the exit that will take him closer to Reid's room. "I can't. I have Reid."

Grant sighs, deflating. He leans his hip against the sink and runs a hand down his face, his usual theatricality taking over.

"Nathan, I get that you're going through some sort of overly-dramatic rebellious stage. I can't say I really understand or agree with it, but you're an Angelev." Grant smiles with a graceful shrug. "None of us are perfect."

"It's hardly a stage-"

Grant raises his hand to stop Nate's retort. "My point is this - I love you and I never wanted to be a part of this war. So I'm not choosing sides; I won't stand with or against you." He takes a step back toward Nate, his shadow shifting on the wall until it looms over them both. "But I will tell you this - whoever this 'Reid' person is that you're so concerned with, I want you to think about what's going to happen to him if you stay here. If you let our family's wrath over losing Elsa, over losing you, rain down on him."

Nathaniel huffs, already forming his argument to rebuff Grant, but once he looks at his brother's face he forgets the words. Because Grant's not angry; he's not saying this to wound Nate.

He's just being a big brother.

"You're a nuclear bomb, Nathaniel. The best thing you can do for Reid is to get as far away as possible."

And with one last squeeze of Nathaniel's arm Grant slips away, the bathroom door swishing softly back into place behind him.

Nate is angry and frustrated, staring vacantly into the distance as he tries to come up with an argument against what Grant just said. But, slowly, he realizes that there's nothing left to fight except himself and the humming fluorescent light over his head; even if Grant were still there he's not sure what he would say.

Because it's all true. Nate is a threat to Reid's life. And if he'd left weeks ago like he'd planned to, right after Memphis, none of this would be happening. Reid would be smiling and walking around and cracking terrible jokes with Ben, not lying unconscious in a bed with a hole in his side and a tube down his throat.

The guilt drops like an anvil and Nate's mouth falls open in a silent scream, violently ripping a soap dispenser off the wall.

And as it clatters to the ground in a spray of pink fluid, he knows that he's got to go.

He's not ready; he never will be. Everything in him is begging to stay, to walk into Room 723 and collapse in a chair beside Reid's bed, holding his unresponsive hand for however many hours it takes for him to wake back up. To silently whisper desperate pleas into his ear, to kiss every inch of his still face until the muscles twitch beneath Nathaniel's mouth, until Reid opens those beautiful eyes and looks at him again.

But he knows that if he does, his family will find them. They'll target Reid out of spite; they'll kill him while he's lying there helpless. And that would be the end of all of this, because Nathaniel couldn't make it one hour beyond losing Reid.

He has to save him. It's the last good thing he can be sure of doing.

Besides, Ben's on his way. Probably Andy, too - Nathaniel can leave and be sure that Reid won't wake up alone.

So when he steps out of the restroom, he turns in the direction of the hospital entrance. He can feel the growing distance from Reid like a rubber band around his heart, pulling painfully tighter with every step, but he keeps going.

He stands at the glass front doors and stops for a moment. The snow has piled in drifts against the building, at least a couple of feet deep. And Nate's coat - just like everything else he owns - is still back at the cabin, the one he can never return to.

If this was yesterday, he'd have Reid. He'd have the Camaro. They could just find a Salvation Army, pick up a new coat for a few bucks, and move on. Start over. They'd done it before.

Now he only has himself.

So even though he feels guilty as hell about it, he pulls a stranger's coat from the rack inside the door. It's a beat-up black trench coat, at least a size too large with a loose button and fraying cuffs. Nate hates it immediately, but that seems appropriate.

He hates everything about this.

Nathaniel drops the burner cell he'd pulled out of Reid's pocket into a garbage can and strides out the hospital's front door alone, crossing his arms over his chest in the frigid wind, blinking back the stinging in his eyes.